Missing
by projectoverlord
Summary: Clint is presumed dead after an explosion, but in fact he's already on his way back to SHIELD. A little bit of funny and a little bit of angst. One-shot.


Phil isn't the one who gets stuck doing the paperwork. No, that is assigned off to one of the junior SHIELD agents. Someone whose credentials are more appropriate for the job. Thought he doesn't really feel it sometimes, Coulson is one of the most senior SHIELD agents. And this is beneath him.

Filling out the mountain of paperwork for a dead asset is something he is no longer required to do.

Even when that asset is Clint.

CHICAGO BORDER, 2300 HOURS

"Barton," comes a hushed voice, crackling through the comms. "Two of our agents were intercepted in the hallway. Backup is fifteen minutes out. Get in there, find them and neutralize the threat."

Hawkeye smirks. "Yes sir."

That same smirk sits on his cheeks, lighting up every inch of his face, until three feet of metal piping slams into it. Clint's thrown back by the force of the swing. He thuds into the ground, a few ribs cracking under the sudden pressure. Everything is rather blurry, he finds, and blood trickles down from his forehead. For some reason, he just feels like giggling.

"What's this one about then? He's not dressed like the suits," says the bigger of two men that loom over him.

"Doesn't matter," the smaller says, "Kill him."

Now _that_ doesn't sound like something Clint wants to be a part of. He fumbles for his weapons, snags the emergency handgun. Whirling it up, he paints the walls with the big guy's brains. The smaller one lurches out of the path of a second bullet. His foot connects with Clint's face, and agony sears up through already bruised nerve endings.

Clint sniffs. Something kind of smells like gas.

He's on his feet, somehow, and catches the arm of another man that's heading for his face. Someone grabs him from behind. Clint giggles, then sinks his teeth into the arm around his throat. Once more, he's thrown into the ground. Through layers and layers of blur, he sees them hurry out. He wants to fight - to do _something - _but all he can do is lie there.

And something definitely smells like gas.

* * *

Phil rubs his eyes. The computer screen seems overly bright in the dark office. Lifting himself onto numb feet, he walks over and flicks the light switch. It's late; maybe he should be sleeping, but he can't bring himself to walk out of this office. To go back to his empty house. He can't bring himself to leave this room. Because then it might just sink in that Clint is really gone. And that's something Phil just can't bring himself to admit.

Someone is shouting in the hallway. The agent cranes his neck, then cringes as a string of curses fill the air.

Clint crashes in through the door, ash in his hair. Bruises colouring the better part of his face. Phil lurches back from him, going for the emergency gun he keeps stashed in his desk. But he doesn't raise it. Doesn't point it at Clint.

"Fuck, Phil, they won't let me in!" he half-drawls, half-whines, while Phil tries to figure out if any of this is even _real_. A security guard catches the archer's arm, and Clint tries fruitlessly to shake him off, "Eh, fuck off!"

"Stand down," Phil orders. Sounds enough like his friend, that's for sure. "Agent Barton, you've been marked as killed in action. We found a body at the site of the explosion."

Clint giggles. He pokes the security guard as though the man is an old friend sharing in a joke, "He thought I was dead. What a wan-"

"_Enough_. Give us a moment," he says to the security team. The moment they're alone, Clint is looking at him like a reprimanded child. Phil points to the chair in front of his desk. "Sit."

Waiting until Clint has done so, Coulson leans in and shines a keychain light into the asset's eyes. "You're concussed, Barton. Would you mind telling me why we found your DNA on a dead body?"

"I mighta bit someone," Clint whispers, nodding and putting on his most serious face. "Don't tell Phil. Shhh."

Coulson sighs. "You are going to medical. Right now."

Clint pouts.

* * *

Fury has to be briefed. Tests have to be run. Even if Coulson thinks - even if Coulson _knows_ - that it's Clint lying on that hospital bed, SHIELD has to be sure it isn't an imposter. And even then, when the DNA sample on the body is re-run and decidedly _not_ Clint Barton, they need to make sure he's not compromised. All in all, it's two days before Coulson sees him again. Even then, he's only there on Fury's behalf, to escort Clint to his debrief. A senior officer he may be, but he's also the only one on SHIELD's payroll that can get Clint to do anything he doesn't want to do.

Sitting up in his bed, itching at the bandages and IV line, is a very irritated looking Clint. He notices Coulson in the doorway immediately, and frowns. "I uh, I suppose I should apologise for crashing your party."

Phil almost smiles, but instead replies without inflection, "Perhaps you should start your apologies with the security guard you managed to choke half to death with his tie."

Clint scratches his head. "Yeah. That guy. I guess I really wanted to get to your office."

"Luckily by the time you made it to my office you had the fighting capability of a fish," Phil quips, completely deadpan. Clint snorts, tugging at his bandages. The bruises on his face have coloured spectacularly, Coulson notes.

A nurse comes in. After she's finished explaining what he can and cannot do now he's being discharged, and has removed the IV line, she leaves again. Eager to be free of the medical wing, Clint leaps to his feet. Coulson looks him over as he stands, then raises an eyebrow. "Put some clothes on, Barton. I'm sure the nursing staff can do without seeing your bare ass."

Clint grins, and Phil swears there's almost a _wiggle_ of the archer's hips as he walks over and grabs his jeans. He looks up at Phil, pants in hand. "I don't hear anyone complaining."

"I'm complaining," Phil tells him, instead of, _I'm really glad you're not dead._

Barton tugs on his jeans, and suddenly all of Coulson's blood is rushing south. _How often does he go commando?_ And he shouldn't be thinking about Barton naked, or ease of access. Or any of this. Quickly, he averts his eyes, falling back into the role of emotionless SHIELD suit.

"Fury wants to see you," he says, instead of, _Don't you ever let me think you're dead, ever again._

"I bet he does. Can we go get food after? The shit they serve here tastes like ass."

The leave the medical wing. Getting to Fury's office takes a bit of a walk. Clint is halfway through telling him all about the new sunfire arrows he's been given when Phil stops walking.

Barton pulls up short, opens his mouth to ask what's with the stop, and finds he's rather preoccupied with Coulson's fingers curled into his shirt and Coulson's lips grazing his own. Two days of stubble scrape across Phil's chin as they meld into the kiss. _Well_, this is certainly not the welcome back Clint had expected, but hell if he's complaining. How did they get into a supply closet? And since when does SHIELD even have supply closets anyway?

Suppose you learn something new every day, Clint thinks. Like, _oh god_, where did Coulson learn to do _that_ with his tongue?

They pull apart, and Phil says, calmly, "If you ever make me think you are dead, ever again, there will be consequences."

And Clint would reply, but Phil is doing that thing with his tongue again.

* * *

_So, a little bit less angst. Still gives me Coulson feels though. Ugh. That will stop at some point, right? I hope you enjoyed this story, feedback makes my world go round, even if it's just one word. And, as usual, I don't own anything._


End file.
